No sirens anymore.

The dogs forgot how to bark.

Even the wind,

careful now…

like it’s been told not to wake the world.

The clocks still move

but slower, it seems,

like they’re stalling

for something

no one’s allowed to name.

Laughter echoes longer these days.

Hangs too clean.

But there’s something in it

scrubbed raw.

I haven’t bled in months.

Not even a splinter.

The mirrors blink first.

I try not to smile back.

They planted quiet in the soil

and we got a bumper harvest.

Fields full of nothing,

but it nourishes us. Somehow.

At night, I open doors

just to hear the creak.

Let the cold in.

Watch the thermostat flinch.

Pretend it’s resistance.

There used to be edges.

Now it’s all cotton and screens.

No one screams.

They just

agree

softly.

Once, I banged my head

to see if I still bruise.

I do.

Violent violet and yellow.

And still, I lied when they asked.